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We are all slaves to cheese. I yield to the power of the creamy texture, the pungent aroma that makes my taste buds tingle and my spirit soar. Mouth-feel. Bouquet. It has it all, I tell you.

During my visit to the supermarket today, I paid a visit to Octavio, my beloved cheesemonger, and I stopped to survey the others partaking in the pleasures of the cheese. 9 out of 10 carts did, in fact, contain some type of the delicacy. And that errant 10th? I shudder to think why. For one to not bow down to the cheese...it's heresy.

And I also realized: you can tell a lot about a person by what cheese they buy. Can you match the cheese with the person?

The flight attendant on our plane is apoligizing. It seems that there was a sliiiiiiight error in judgement when the powers-that-be chose our in-flight movie, and somehow we ended up with Kissing Jessica Stein. Apparently it slid by simply because Ben Afflek is in the cast. And yes, it is a gay story line, but doesn't everyone love Will & Grace?... Anyway, we got to the first girl-on-girl kiss, and that tape was OUTTA there. I'm so insulted. No I'm not. I really don't care.

The guy directly across the aisle from me pressed his flight-attendant call button on his armrest. And somehow the switch broke. Now the signal light above his seat (and next to my head) is repeatedly flicking on and off, while the chime is sounding over and over throughout the whole cabin. Ding-ding-flash-ding-ding-ding-flash-ding-flash-flash-ding-flash. So the flight attendant gave the armrest a good spanking, but to no avail. Curses! He then apologized again, because they couldn't turn the plane around and land just for a malfunctioning call button. But he said HE would locate the electircal box and pull the appropriate fuse, in the hopes the problem would stop. Thirty seconds later, I guess he found the electrical box, because the entire cabin went completely dark. And we heard him say "Oh shit."

That's no good.

Now the lights are on, we've been apologized to again, and the dinging and the flashing are still dinging and flashing. This is a 4-hour flight. LA is so far away from everything.

The man and the little girl in the seats behind me are singing the "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" song, while boisteriously performing the requisite choreography of touching each body part as is is announced. With their Spanish-derived accents--perhaps Cuban? Mexican? (who cares!)--the song is actually being pronounced "Haaaaaid, eshoulders, nis y toast, nis y toast..." Their singing makes me want to turn around and gouge their eyes out with my fingers. Or perhaps I'll just sit here and cry? They have been singing since the beverage service passed by, and they are still at it. My glass is empty. That beverage service passed by a while ago. WAITER...(shake shake shake)

Speaking of coctails--I spoke to my grandmother today. She just moved into an "assisted-living facility." We all tried to talk her out of it, but it is a very nice place, and she is very excited; she feels like she is starting a new chapter. She is also aware of the fact that one of those rooms is where she will die. Discussion of mortality always leaves a tangy aftertaste in my mouth, I'm not partial to it. But she couldn't talk long, because she had to go play bridge with all her new friends. She asked me to come visit soon. She then asked me if I could help her find some pot. She's always wanted to try it.

Ding-ding-flash-ding-flash-ding-ding-ding-flash.

There is a woman sitting in the middle seat, next to me, and her shoulder keeps touching mine. She keeps easing into it as if, by doing it slowly, I won't notice the encroaching soft, gelatinous flesh engulfing my upper arm. But I mind, oh yes. I mind. And despite my politest efforts to stake claim to my personal space by re-adjust myself in my own seat, and thereby disturbing the settling of the fleshy mass sliding over onto my person, she pulls her arms in only momentarily, before starting our shoulder-touch tango all over again. And so it goes.

WHY YOU WOULD GO THERE: Because the town's nickname is "The Star City," and you want to see for yourself what all the hoopla is about. Because you are obsessed with Tara Lipinski memorabilia. Because your favorite sports team is playing the Cornhuskers and you want to show support. Because you are paying a visit to your old friend Jenn.

WHO YOU MIGHT MEET: Karen, who wears funky t-shirts and thinks her hair looks better dyed black. Tim, an Amish teenager who (shh!) really likes driving cars. Mark, who feels lost, now that the Christian coffee house in town was closed because they didn't pay their taxes. Friends and/or family of Brandon Teena, who lived here; "his" life story was the subject of "Boys Don't Cry."

WHERE TO STAY: If there's a reason to come to Lincoln, The Cornhusker Hotel is it. Odd name, but it's a gorgeous place. Who knew, in Nebraska?...fancy rooms, big soft beds, worthy-of-stealing-from-housekeeping toiletries, the whole thing. Rather than take the elevator from my room directly to the ground floor, I would get off on Floor 2, just to descend the giant winding staircase to the lobby and pretend I was Scarlett O’Hara. I was tempted to rip the curtains off my window and make a dress, but I got in trouble the last time I did that.

WHERE TO GO, PART I: The new hot-spot in town is a bar called Starlite Lounge, a really cute 50’s-retro-style bar that serves fabulous martinis. There is also a gay club called Q that’s hoppin on the weekends. I don't know that for a fact; I just heard that. Whatever. We didn't go to these places; instead, we stopped by a friend’s party, where I proceeded to drink too much tequila, and ended up spending the evening lounging in the lap of a really cute curly-haired med student named Matt. Matt? Or was it Mike? Greg? I don’t know, it was one syllable. But when he finishes med school next year, we’re going to get married. He told me so, right before we started to make out. Should I believe him? Great kisser, at least. More on him later.

WHERE TO GO, PART II : Everybody who is anybody in Lincoln spends quality time at the National Museum Of Roller Skating. The "museum" occupies the back room of the USA Roller Sports association offices, which is also headquartered in Lincoln--so many important things happen in Nebraska--and has neat photos of old roller rinks and roller skaters from the '50's and stuff. Just make sure you head into the back corner of the museum; walk behind the “history of the skate wheel” display, turn right at the picture of the lesbians in the roller derby, and there it is…

...the tribute to Tara Lipinski.

Apparently Miss Lipinski got her start in roller figure skating, before she pulled a Benedict Arnold and switched to the ice. The Roller Skating Museum is proud of her roots. Good job, Tara Lipinski. The display even includes a former costume she wore in competition, which is purple. Because purple is her favorite color. I know this now. I also know she lives in Sugar Land (swear to God!) Texas, and her favorite thing to read is USA Today. She's a worldly girl, that Tara Lipinski. I’m going to try to visit every June 10, as that’s her birthday, just to pay homage.

As we exited the museum, we passed a poster with the picture of a little kid shrugging his shoulders, with the caption above him reading,

"What if the hokey-pokey IS what it’s all about?"

It stopped us dead in our tracks. That's just deep, man, that's deep.

We stood there for a moment, pondering these words of wisdom, and we committed ourselves to studying more existentialist theories by Nietzsche. Then Jenn tried to create a distraction by asking questions about Tara Lipinski while I attempted to peel the poster off the wall and steal it. I never considered the fact that, rolled up, it would still be a 2-feet-long tube sticking out of my pants. But I almost had it when an errant secretary wandered by and I chickened out. So we bought Roller Skating Museum t-shirts instead. Cool shirts, actually. It cost $15, but I'm going to beat it up a little bit and sell it as "vintage" on Melrose. I can get $50 for it at least.

WHERE TO EAT: Thank God the citizens of India know no cultural boundaries, and will open a restaurant absolutely anywhere. Finding a restaurant suitable for my vegetarian friend Jenn--in Lincoln, Nebraska, where steak is considered breakfast—was rough, until we found The Oven (201 N. 8th St.), an Indian restaurant in the funky-meets-historic "Haymarket District." Bring on the soybean curd! Although I have no problem killing animals for my own benefit, so I ate some chicken dish. It was simmered in a sauce that tasted like expensive cream-of-tomato soup. Deeeeeeelicious.

After-dinner drinks included the best f*^%ing coffee I have ever swallowed in my LIFE, at The Coffee House, (1324 P St.) Try the "Mexican Mocha," which seems cinnamon-ish, but also so much more. I am now obsessed with finding other places that serve this drink, besides coffeehouses in the middle of Nebraska.

And FYI: apparently the cool thing to do in Lincoln is to open a business, say what is inside, stick a "The" on the front, and you're done. Note "The Oven," and "The Coffe House." Minimalist monikers are big in Lincoln. Huge. I wonder if Tara Lipinski likes Mexican Mocha?

WHEN TO GET GOOD PHONE MESSAGES: I returned to my hotel room to see my message light blinking. “Hey Dan, it’s your future husband,” said the male voice on my voice mail, the voice of the man with the curly hair and the good lips. It made my chest feel very warm. “Just calling to see how you are. I was hoping if, you’re still in town, we could talk about our wedding…or I’d prefer maybe just going to get dinner, or, I don’t know, something. Call me back.” He left his number. He didn’t leave his name. I wondered if he likes to do the hokey pokey. I hope he does. There's so much to think about now. In times like this, I like to take to heart the advice of Miss Tara Lipinski, and her favorite quote: “Always Dream.”

I'm at my friend's house, and she has cable; I just watched Rules Of Attraction on HBO...seriously, one of my favorite movies. I had no idea it was playing on TV. Please watch it, if you've never seen it, or even if you have.

In honor of this film, which I believe to be one of the best independents ever made, here is an article I wrote for a magazine last year, all about my "L.A. Experience" at Attraction's opening night. Bon Appetít.

~~~~~~~~~~

As I am a huge fan of American independent films—and a bigger fan of fabulous parties—I accompanied Andy Jones, movie columnist and super-sleuth for E! Online, to the opening party for Rules Of Attraction at Nacíonal in Hollywood. The must-see film of the year had spawned the must-be-at party of the weekend, and we felt our attendance was a necessity. Andy and I already saw the “non-rated, director's cut” (translation: too violent and naughty for theaters) version of Attraction a few weeks before; the MPAA insisted some of the graphic images be removed before it received it's "R" rating. So we couldn’t wait to compare notes with party-goers over what the new, edited film had in store…or, more importantly, left out.

A gorgeous collection of faces milled about the party: Heath Ledger, Val Kilmer, names, names, names filled the rooms of the elegant club. The main attraction, however, was the stars of the intense, somewhat gay-themed Attraction itself. No one could stop talking about their powerhouse performances so hot, they almost burned the movie off the screen.

James (stop-calling-him-Dawson!) Van Der Beek entered the club and immediately headed to the upstairs VIP area, trailed by co-stars Shannyn Sossamon, Kip Pardue, Jessica Biel and Ian Somerhalder. Of course, the general populace followed their trail, creating a nightmare of cluttered bodies in the upstairs lounge. So while Andy chased after the movie’s stars with his tape recorder, I lurked in a downstairs back room and chatted with the charming woman handing out free samples of vitamin-water.

The party also fell on Shannyn Sossamon’s birthday, completely by coincidence, and it just so happened the vitamin-water room was the site for the celebration. Halfway through the party, a parade of exquisite, sugary cakes streamed through a curtain, perching on a table in front of a giant banner reading “Happy Birthday Shannyn.” And as there weren’t more than seven people in the room, I easily spotted Shannyn herself when she breezed in, with a gaggle of dour-looking fashion queens in tow.

Then Kip, then James, then Jessica, then Ian, then a various assortment of supporting actors from the film, the cast assembled in the room and expressed their relief in the open space around them. Ironically, the upstairs was so crowded with admirers, it seemed no one noticed their escape. I reveled in the irony of standing within arm’s reach of the whole cast, while I pictured poor, annoyed Andy wondering where everyone went. Ha ha.

Kip grabbed an “Island Punch” vitamin water as Jessica grabbed the nearest male and shimmied to the music. I felt the urge to hug Jessica, both because she seemed like the kind of wild, ballsy girlfriend that every gay man needs, and also because she is just so strikingly beautiful I wanted to touch her. But that would be weird. The cakes screamed for immediate attention anyway, so I turned my attention to finding a fork. Beside me stood Shannyn, arms crossed on her chest.

“I think that one is a Princess cake,” I said, pointing to the green confection in the corner. Yum. “Those are really good.”

“I know, they look great,” she said. “I wish I could have some, but I’m a vegan.”

“Oh.” So that’s why she’s so skinny, I thought. She must always be cold. “I’m guessing these aren’t vegan cakes, are they?”

“No, this sucks.” Her beautiful face turned to me. “It’s my birthday party and I can’t have any of my own cake.” She spun around and slouched off to the solace of her friends. My attention turned back to the cake and I took two pieces, knowing Shannyn wasn’t going to eat hers anyway. Too bad I still couldn’t find a fork.

I've been spending a lot of time with my sister-in-law, and my two niece, while my brother is working out-of-town. Sis loves the help, as well as the opportunity to talk to an adult about politics, books, the world outside her kitchen...I like coming inside every day and shutting the rest of the world out, playing puzzles, singing songs. I really want kids. I often wonder if this is the closest I'll ever come to getting them. Yes, it's important to identify what you want out of life, and create it for yourself; but it's also important to recognize there are some things you just can't create for yourself at all. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally.

My niece , Miss P, really is so much fun. The name may seem a little cutesy, but it's not at all. We started calling her Miss P because she's a total drama-queen, and the "Miss" seemed to fit. She possesses an enthusiasm unparalleled by any adult I know, and throws herself into hugs, and belly-laughs, and shreiks of glee as if that's the only way to live. We never talk baby-talk, ever. And she calls me on the phone--at AGE 3--and insists I come over to her house immediately, because she has out the dress-up box and it's not fun to play with alone. Plus, I'm the only one who will put on the big giant flowered hat. But I like that hat. I like all of it. I don't do it just to make her happy, I really have fun. I think she appreciates that, too...they're very perceptive, those 3-year-olds, moreso than adults sometimes.

I'm not concerned about "finding love," or about my career, or with being at the right social events, or whatever else I'm supposed to worry about...I don't even think about any of it, I don't know why. But then there are those days when I sit and paint pictures with Miss P, and I always make sure she paints hers as a present to her parents; it's like I do it just to obsess on the fact that I am so, so jealous.

I suppose I should settle down and get a steady career. I should buy a house. I should pay off my bills and stop moving around. But would that really help? I don't think it would. It would just keep me in one place, and then I'm still just me, instead now I'm me, sitting still. Even if I'm in a relationship, what are the chances I will take that step into fatherhood? Seriously? I don't know any gay men with kids, and I don't really know any who honestly want them. Sperm donor for lesbians? Sure. Actual fatherhood? Well...

WHY YOU WOULD GO THERE: Your friend/relative is a student at East Carolina University. You work in the pharmecutical industry. You wanted to go to Greenville, SC, but you messed up your plane ticket, which would be unfortunate because the Greenville, NC airport is sucky.

WHO YOU MIGHT MEET: A guy named Bryan, spelled with a "y" because his mother didn't like how "Brian" looked like "brain." A girl named Ellen, who is excited to be in Greenville because this is her first time living "in a big city." A drag queen named Candis Cox, who stands over 7-feet-tall in heels, and takes her job at the local gay bar very seriously.

WHAT TO WEAR: Trucker hats are not just for Ashton Kutcher. De rigeur for the Greenville fashion set, wear the same one every day! The look never gets old.

WHERE TO EAT, PART I: Ham's Restaurant and Brewhouse (701 South Evans) is more than beer. Ham's is renowned for their balloon animal artistry. The resident balloon artist strolls from table to table, and will jump right into the middle of your conversation, and whip up something for you whether you want it or not. (Even a balloon hat! Hats are HUGE in Greenville!) Give the guy a generous tip for that extra-special creation. I'm partial to the poodles. Just don't ask for a penis-and-testicles balloon. He doesn't do dirty stuff. And don't even ask. Trust me.

WHERE TO EAT, PART II: For a more casual, balloon-free dining experience, Parker's Barbecue (3109 South Memorial Dr.) serves up various types of cooked animal flesh. Seriously, it's just mounds of shredded meat, and a fork. And it's really, really tasty stuff. Don't get the coleslaw, it's totally disgusting; get the hush puppies instead. And heed the warning on the front door: "SHIRTS REQUIRED." Greenville's a classy place, you know. The warning said nothing about "shoes," though. Hmm.

WHERE TO GET LAID: Want to watch Candis Cox force hot college guys to make out on stage? See it happen at Barcode, the place to see-and-be-seen for miles around...and since this is basically the only place to go, the pickings are good. It's a nice place; if you have a party there, they can cater it, and set up a buffet. Popular menu items? Cheese, and those Lil' Smokies you used to eat in elementary school. Meat and dairy for everyone! Delicious! P.S.: If you're a fan of The Spice Girls, you're in luck. The DJ still plays their hits. I, for one, can't get enough.

WHERE TO GET LAID, PART II: Staying overnight in Greenville? Check into the City Hotel. Two words: Jacuzzi suites. Fantastic!

(This was written during the big New England blizzard; I was stranded at my friend's house in Massachusetts, as the airports were closed for days.)

~~~

How To Get There: I was unable to get a flight out of Logan Airport. Nearing panic-level, I told the US Airways lady I had to make it to North Carolina for work, or my world would come crashing to an end. She found a flight for me out of the Providence airport, which is about an hour away from my friend's house in the Boston 'burbs. Sadly, it left very early in the morning...too early to try and wake up and drive there in time. No way. So I told Derek to start packing, we were spending the night in Rhode Island. If I had to spend the night in Rhode Island, he was coming with me, damnit.

Where To Stay: We checked into The Biltmore--big rooms, high ceilings, crown molding you normally don't see anymore--right in the center of town. It's over-the-top amazing. Derek and I couldn't help ourselves from swaggering through the lobby, we felt so important just being there. Just don't valet your car, it's a disorganized mess; park in the garage yourself.

When we dumped our luggage in our room, I arm-twisted Derek into heading out with me for the night. Did you know there even WAS a Sunday-night Providence nightlife scene? I didn't. But there is. And it ends at 1 AM, so get there early.

Where To Get Laid: The place to be Sunday nights is The Strand, an old downtown theater converted into a club--and, as luck would have it, it's around the corner from The Biltmore. Sunday night is gay night, complete with go-go dancers and drag queens and everything. It's a really nice place. Drinks are cheap, the music is great, and people are cute and friendly enough. Granted, there was a guy wearing a cowboy hat and doing all the choreography to Madonna's "Don't Tell Me" video, but that's not Providence's fault. That was his own bad judgement.

Within minutes of our entrance, and after tipping a go-go dancer with a nice booty, we met Kitty Litter, a bawdy drag queen with a friendly smile and a thick Rhode Island accent (very similar to one from Brooklyn). We love Kitty Litter. She's takes great pride in discussing her extensive work fundraising for AIDS charities in Rhode Island. And her day job? HE's a gynecologist. I swear to GOD. I asked other people in the bar if he was serious, and they all said yes, he is in fact a gynecologist, it's the talk of the town. Women line up to have their womanhoods examined by this guy. That's a LOT of interest in the female body, I think, between the vaginas during the day and the fake titties at night. But most of his clients are lesbians, apparently, so they take the whole drag thing in stride.

I’ve been stuck in Boston for days. A blizzard is wreaking havoc on all of New England. The blizzard dumped so much snow on the airport runways, they just closed the whole place down. So I hate everyone. Except my friend Derek, who lives somewhere out in the ‘burbs; he welcomed me into his home, thank you very much Derek.

That night the mayor of Boston appeared on TV and warned everyone to stay inside, off the roads, unless it was an absolute emergency. And with that Derek looked at me and said, “It’s an emergency. I need a drink.” We jumped into his Jeep Cherokee and headed out to Blue Ginger, the restaurant in the Boston 'burbs owned by Ming Tsai, that really tall Asian chef on the Food Network, with that super-sexy voice. I love Ming Tsai! Normally reservations are hard to get at his restaurant, but if you wait for nights when there are blizzards, you can grab a table from a less-adventurous party who didn’t show up. Thank you very much Ming Tsai.

Because the only thing better than driving in an blizzard is driving in an blizzard while drunk, we headed for some random bar where we would undoubtedly find lots of uppity gay men wearing tiny Banana Republic t-shirts and huge snow boots. On our way there, we passed a group of five girls on the street, their huge hair-dos blowing in the gale as they tried to flag down this guy driving a plow truck. We pulled up next to them and asked them what they were doing. One girl said they were going to a party thrown by some college football players, but they couldn't find a cab, so they were hoping to hitch a ride from a compassionate plow driver. And then she paused, looked us over, and said "...or maybe a Jeep full of gay guys." LOVING HER ALREADY.

And as we were risking our lives for a mere cocktail, we couldn't question their priorities. "Get in!"

They got in the car, complained their smoky eyeshadow creations and Pantene Pro-V conditioning treatments were all RUINED (all that drug-store conditioner gone to waste!) and discussed how glad they were to be going out after being cooped up on campus of their all-girls Catholic school. (Naughty Catholic girls are the best!) And one of the girls felt bad about missing work that night...at her strip club. The moral of this story? When in Boston, drive around in blizzards. You will find naughty Catholic school-girl strippers on the side of the road. Eat your hearts out, straight guys.

When we pulled up in front of their party, and as they slipped their way up the walk, their spiral perms blowing sideways in the wind, I felt thankful I had this chance to meet these naughty Catholic-school girls, whom I would have never had the chance to meet in calmer weather. They were cool as hell. I need to diversify my types of friends, I think. Do you ever look at a person and wonder about that other world going on around that person, that you will never know?...it makes me feel very mortal.

Visited Grandma in Chicago. Her house is always about 85 degrees, with the heat constantly running, so there is always a breeze of hot dry air blowing on you no matter where you are. But you can't change out of your winter clothes; bare skin sticks to the plastic covers she has covering all her furniture. So long sleeves and pants it is, or you sit on the floor. I make a habit of cleaning her house and taking out the trash, one wastebasket at a time, so the cold Chicago winter air freezes the sweat on my body and cool me off.

She entertains herself talking about all the ills of the world, whether she knows the subjects of the unfortunate events or not. As the conversation progresses, you tend to become more obtuse with each question, in the hopes of diffusing things into a comfortable state of vague-ness; but it doesn't matter. She finds tragedy in all things, and talking about it makes her face light up.

"How are you, Grandma?"

"Oh, I'm fine, or as fine as you can be at my age. I'm not going to be around for much longer, you know."

"How's Aunt Mary doing?"

"She has diabetes, and she tells lies all the time."

"I see you have new neighbors, are they nice?"

"I think they're communists."

"We drove through Lincoln Park on our way up here. I just love that neighborhood, with all the little shops."

"Yeah, but there's a rapist on the loose."

We were there for two days, in which time I ate 7 ham sandwiches (I don't like ham, but she still insists that I love it, so it's all that's ever there), learned not to steal hotel towels in Europe ("they'll search your luggage if one is missing from your room!"), and promised I would settle down and get a job, just for the health insurance ("You could get hit by a car any day, you have to be careful!"). But it's still fun to see her old yellow kitchen table, and sit on the couches with the plastic covers that stick to you when you stand up, and listen to the clink of the ice cubes in her cocktail glass as she walks by...those ice cubes are the sound of love, the sound of home, the sound of family's ties. And when you hug her goodbye, pretending to not feel her hand slip into your coat pocket, giving you that $5 she thinks you need, those family ties pull you back just a little. It's always sad to see Mom cry, as she does every year, when she leaves the home she lived in for the first 20 years of her life. There's always a special place in your heart for these places. I think Mom expressed her emotions best when, as we waited for our cab to go home, when she said..."If the airport is this hot, I will just die."

My friend Corey told me to start using typepad so would stop bothering him about how to start a website. But now I don't know what to say on this log. Hmm.

I'm going to use this for the work I do, as a public speaker and writer--I speak on "gay issues," and how multi-culturalism should work (yet how it rarely works at all), as well as trends in HIV infection. I have to say, I'm pretty darned good, too. My speeches are fun. But mostly, I want to use this site for the traveling I do; I go to random places, all of which have something to offer. Perhaps you can learn something from the people I meet, wherever I am meeting them.

I'll also have links to my friends' sites...some of them will be other MTV people, but I'm not putting in their links simply because they're on MTV. They're actually my friends, in real life, and they're very nice people with interesting things to say.